Print Room

He fell back heavily into the chair. As his arse hit the cushion of the decaying red lounger he realized that the remote control was on the table, far away. Just too far.

Defeated again he closed his eyes and thought of photocopying.

Miriam Angel D’Abo. Mrs.

She made one of life’s chores feel like the third pint on a Friday. Who knows what could happen? Where it all might lead? It seemed unfair that such beauty (Miriam, not the third pint) should be locked away in the bowels of the dreary college, sat preening in the murk of the print room.

Chinks of light he called them, those rays that made life bearable, which changed a trudge to as manly a skip as he could manage.

Past the A level art crap in the lobby.
Skip.
Past the principles office.
Tosser. Skip.
Left at the disabled lift (how much?).
Skip.
On again past the gents, to Miriam.


“Harry”
“Miriam”

He paused. Shifted. Forced his unused memory to store the information. Clear the decks! Move the TV trivia, the Beefheart albums, all that fucking sport! Seconds to get it;

Tight pencil skirt. Grey.
No tights. Skin!
Flat shoes. Can’t see her toes.
Black black skin.
White teeth, white blouse. I’m white!
Eight ball head, hair? Not much.
Heart hurts.

“Can I get these for Friday, I mean Thursday?” Friday was too far away.

“Thursday or Friday Harry?”

“Thursday”

“See what I can do”


Today is only Tuesday.